Goat Pie (7 page)

Ulrik waited, listening. He heard the sound of his dad running, then a deafening crash as he hit something. Then a roar and a loud angry squealing. A moment later his dad appeared again, panting for breath and with mud and straw in his hair.

‘Pigses!' he gasped. ‘Great big snorkers!'

‘That's what I was trying to tell you, Dad,' said Ulrik. ‘The goats aren't in this barn, they're over there!'

They found the goats in the yard behind the farmhouse, penned in by a stone wall. Ulrik counted fourteen in all, including one skinny brown kid lying next to its mother.

‘Don't be frighted,' said Mr Troll, as they crouched by the wall.

‘I'm not,' replied Ulrik.

‘Good,' said Mr Troll. ‘Because goats can always smell a frighted troll. That's when they charge and butt you with their hornses.'

Ulrik guessed his dad was thinking about the last time he'd tackled a goat – the giant billy goat which had tossed him off the bridge into the dark, swirling river. These goats didn't look too big, although they did have horns between their ears.

‘This is a chance for you to practise roaring, Ulrik,' said Mr Troll. ‘You slip inside the gate and give them a great, scaresome roar. Send them running to me and I'll be waiting to catch a fat one in the sack.'

‘What if I fright them?' asked Ulrik.

‘You're meant to fright them!'

‘Couldn't I sing to them instead?'

Mr Troll rolled his eyes. ‘We've been over this, Ulrik.'

‘Or I could feed them some biscuits.'

Mr Troll gave him a look. ‘Are we hunting goatses or making friends with them?'

‘Hunting, Dad.'

‘Then let's get on with it.'

Ulrik crawled on all fours to the end of the wall
and slunk over to the gate. It opened with a creak and he slipped inside. The goats took no notice of him. He could see his dad's shadow at the far end of the pen, waiting with the sack at the ready. All he had to do was make them run from him. Easy-cheesy. He clenched his fists and screwed his eyes tight shut. ‘Grarrgh!' he roared.

It wasn't his best roar – he was worried the peeples in the farmhouse might hear – and it didn't have much effect. The nearest goat raised its head and blinked at him, then they all went back to chewing the grass or continued to sleep. His dad signalled to him to try again. He took a deep breath. This time he stamped his feet at the same time as he roared. It made no difference – the goats only turned their backs and went on eating.

Mr Troll came running back. ‘What the bogles are you doing?' he hissed.

‘Roaring softlys. I didn't want to wake the peeples.'

‘You won't even wake the goats like that!' said Mr Troll. ‘Here – hold the sack. Let me do the roaring.'

His dad flitted off into the dark again, leaving Ulrik holding the empty sack.

He was just wondering whether to close the gate when a fearsome noise broke the stillness.

‘GRAAAAARGHHHH!'

The roar of a hunting troll is a sound to chill the blood. It's enough to make a giant dive under the covers clutching his teddy bear. To the sleepy,
unsuspecting goats it sounded like a tiger on the loose. They pricked up their ears, turned tail and stampeded towards the gate.

Ulrik saw them thundering towards him: a blur of hooves and horns and dust. He held the sack at the ready but it was hopeless. There were fourteen goats and only one of him – he might as well have tried to catch a swarm of bees in a paper bag.
The goats were running for their lives and they had seen the open gate. This was their chance of freedom.

In the farmhouse, Mr and Mrs Douglas sat bolt upright in bed. The animals in the yard were making a terrible din – bleating, braying and clucking as if the world was coming to an end.

‘It's that damn fox! The varmint!' said Mr Douglas, jumping out of bed. He struggled with his trousers, hopping around the room trying to get both feet into one leg. ‘This time I'll have him! I'll blast him!'

Mrs Douglas pulled back the curtains. ‘The goats have got out!' she cried. ‘They're in the yard!'

‘What?' said Mr Douglas. ‘He's after the goats? The cheeky beggar! I'll pepper his backside!' He finally got his trousers on and thumped down the stairs to find his boots. By the back door he reached into the cupboard for his rifle.

In the yard, Ulrik was out of breath. Goats were a lot harder to catch than he'd expected. They
bucked and kicked when you caught them by the tail. They left a trail of goat droppings which made the yard as slippery as an ice rink. With all the dashing and crashing around they seemed to have woken every animal in the farm. Dogs barked, pigs squealed and a horse kicked at its stable door.

Ulrik wondered where his dad was. In the confusion he had dropped the sack and now he couldn't find it.

A head poked out from the corner of a water trough and two bright eyes blinked at him. It was the skinny brown kid he'd noticed before. Ulrik reached into his pocket and brought out a biscuit. ‘Here, little ninny goat,' he said softly, holding out some crumbs. The kid took half a step towards him. Ulrik squatted down to its level to make himself seem smaller. He began to hum softly. Amazingly, the goat trotted closer and licked the crumbs from his hand. ‘Good girl!' said Ulrik.

‘DON'T MOVE!' commanded a voice behind him. He looked round to see the farmer, dressed in a pyjama top and baggy trousers, aiming the barrel of a rifle at him. Ulrik had never seen a
rifle before but he knew they weren't for tickling.

Mr Douglas, for his part, had never seen a troll before and finding one in his yard in the middle of the night scared the life out of him. He was prepared for foxes, but he had never seen anything like this ugly brute with the savage fangs.

The rifle shook in his hands. The hairy creature took a step towards him. ‘Back! Get back!' warned Mr Douglas. But his next words were lost as everything was plunged into darkness. Someone had jammed a foul-smelling sack over his head.

‘Run!' bellowed Mr Troll, who had crept up behind the farmer.

Ulrik ran across the yard with his heart pounding and his dad close behind him. When they had crossed three fields, plunged through a ditch and climbed a wall, they came out on a country lane. Mr Troll bent over, hands on knees, trying to catch his breath.

‘Uggsome! Is hunting always like that?' panted Ulrik.

Mr Troll shook his head, too breathless to speak.

‘Did I do OK?' asked Ulrik. ‘I nearly caught a kiddler but the farmer frighted it off.'

‘Maybe we … need more … roaring practice,' panted Mr Troll. He broke off and listened. Footsteps were coming down the lane. What now? Maybe they hadn't given the farmer the slip after all.

Mr Troll looked around wildly for a place to hide and settled for pulling Ulrik down in the long grass by the side of the road.

‘Are we stopping for a rest?' whispered Ulrik.

‘Shh! Someone's coming!'

The footsteps drew closer, a light
trip trop
on the
road. They stopped. Mr Troll imagined the farmer with his rifle in his hand, sniffing the air to catch their scent. In future he'd remember to wear a clean vest for hunting.

Once again the footsteps came, nearer and nearer. A shadow appeared above them and two bright eyes blinked in the dark.

‘She followed us!' said Ulrik, delighted.

‘Well I'll be bogled!' said Mr Troll. ‘It's a goat!'

Mrs Priddle woke from a lovely dream. She was throwing a Christmas party at her house and all kinds of famous people were there. She was just about to tell the Queen a funny joke when something woke her up. It was the kind of noise Warren made when he ate with his mouth open –
chomp, chomp, chomp.
She turned to glare at her husband, who was lying on his side with his mouth lolling open.

‘Roger!' she said.

‘Mmm?' said her husband, still half asleep.

‘Stop making that noise!'

‘I wasn't!' mumbled Mr Priddle.

‘You were chewing in my ear!'

Mr Priddle rolled over, presenting his back to her. ‘Go back to shleep,' he grunted.

Chomp, chomp, chomp!
Mrs Priddle heard it again. She hadn't dreamed it – she was wide awake now. The chomping, chewing noise wasn't in the bedroom at all, it was coming from outside the window. ‘It's those trolls again!' she said out loud.

Ever since they'd moved in next door the Trolls were always disturbing her sleep. They thumped and clumped around as if they were dragging bodies up and down stairs (something Mrs Priddle thought was quite likely). They roared in the back garden at seven o' clock in the morning and waved cheerily at her husband when he shouted at them to stop. Now, by the sound of it, they were having a picnic on her front lawn.

Mrs Priddle climbed out of bed and pulled back the curtains.

‘There's a goat!' she said in astonishment.

‘Tell him I'm asleep,' mumbled Mr Priddle.

‘Roger, there's a goat in our garden eating my winter jasmine!'

Mr Priddle groaned. ‘You're dreaming,' he mumbled. But his wife yanked the duvet off him and shook him until he opened his eyes. ‘Come and see for yourself!'

Mr Priddle staggered to the window, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Looking out, he saw a skinny brown goat contentedly munching its way through their shrubbery. At one time, he thought, this was a perfectly normal neighbourhood. You could look out of your window in the morning and see the paper boy passing on his bike. Now it was trolls or goats in your garden.